Words are for Women
by jackiejones
Summary: One Shot in response to the Gazebo Challenge: The Essence of Charlie Swan. Here, Charlie contemplates the lengths to which he's gone to rouse Bella from her depression and comes to the conclusion that he must send her back to her mom Ch.4, NM .


_**This fic was written for THE GAZEBO FIC CHALLENGE: The Essence of Charlie Swan**_

_**Prompt used: Charlie watching Bella struggle in New Moon**_

_**Please see the C2 - THE GAZEBO FIC CHALLENGE: The Essence of Charlie Swan for more fics in this competition.**_

All things Twilight belong to Stephenie Meyer; no copyright infringement is intended.

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This shit had to stop. Now. It wasn't just about her anymore. My own sanity was slipping a bit more every day, and I was tired. Exhausted really. I was finished sitting back and letting us drift off into crazy together, a matched pair. Her, the Stepford Daughter. Me, the gibbering idiot.

And I may have always been an idiot, but damn it, Charlie Swan does not gibber.

I'm a closed book. I walk through life with a stiff upper lip. Words are for women. But this - this _girl_ - has reduced me to spouting off the most ridiculous nonsense, trying every which way to provoke a response. That's what I get for listening to her mother.

Last spring, when that little fucker had hurt Bella – scared Bella -- whatever, sent her off in a torrent of scathing words and slamming doors and left her in the hospital, I'd hopped on a plane to Phoenix. I'd thought that walking into that hospital room, seeing my baby hooked up to so many tubes and wires and needles, seeing her leg hidden in a giant cast - I thought for sure, that would always reign as the worst moment in my life. Worse than losing her mom. Worse than hearing the words that broke my heart once flung back at me for a second time in my daughter's voice. Seeing her broken and bruised and so…little. So vulnerable.

There are no words. Nothing I can think of, anyway, to explain what that felt like – the constricting of my heart, the ache in my head, the fear and the anger all balled into one and wearing a name: Edward Fucking Cullen.

But now, I know I was wrong. Because none of that was as painful as watching my little girl try so damned hard to be normal when she was so obviously_ not._

A broken bone is something I can understand. Something I can cope with. Something concrete and fixable. Shit, even seeing Bella for just a couple weeks each year, I'd had more than a few trips with her to the ER to get her stitched up.

A broken heart is something else.

So I did the only thing I knew to do: give her space, let her figure things out, not hover or intrude. The first week was bad. And by bad, I mean fucked up. She lay on her bed and wouldn't eat, wouldn't speak, wouldn't do anything but hum quietly to herself, shivering through the night with her window wide open. Renee showed up on Day 3, arriving in a swirl of peasant blouses, warm hugs, whispered conversations, and she resuscitated our daughter. Got her to shower, got her to eat, even got her to go to school the next week. And I want to say it was awkward to have her back home, sharing the space that we'd created together so long ago, but I was just so grateful that she could do what I couldn't -- yeah. There wasn't room for awkwardness or personal reflection. There was only Bella.

I stayed home the day that Renee left to return to Phil and Jacksonville - scared that without her mom's presence nearby, Bella'd revert to the quivering mess she'd been before. God, I want that mess back now.

Instead, she just -- I don't know -- disappeared? Used her own skin like the comforter on her bed, hiding somewhere underneath, safe from the pain of life.

My girl is a master of avoidance - hell, she learned from the best. It must be in the genes - I didn't see her enough in her formative years to pass that on by osmosis, right?

She keeps this house spotless. Bella makes the most amazing dinners - all from scratch. Her first semester report card came, and --shit, I'm out of practice being a dad, what can I say?-- it surprised me. I'm not used to thinking in semesters. I got the envelope in the mail from the school, and I just felt my stomach plummet. What did they want? What was wrong now? When I realized it was a report card, I panicked for a minute. She was always doing her homework at the kitchen table, but I'd never even thought to call the school and check up on her. Maybe she'd been failing, just crying out for me to intervene or get off my ass and do something-- but, no. Nope. Straight A's. Top marks.

In the midst of her own personal hell, Isabella Marie Swan got straight A's. Not how I would have handled the situation - hell, not how I _did_ handle being drop-kicked to the curb - but so…Bella. Nothing out of place. Nothing to complain of, point to and say, "Quit it." And it just tied my hands - just made me want to weep with frustration, because how do you blame a kid for being perfect? How do you take a baseball bat and knock down her house of cards?

So I went to the only person I knew that knew Bella better than I did. Again.

"Charlie, have you tried talking to her?" I heard Renee blow a gust of air out of her mouth in exasperation, and I could just see it toss her bangs upwards for a moment, see her roll her eyes and put one hand on her hip. I knew this tone. It was the "Charlie-you-dipshit-crawl-out-of-your-shell-and-be-a-human-being" tone. She'd perfected it long ago.

I met it with silence. These were well rehearsed rolls. I thought she should congratulate me on how well I was remembering my lines, or the lack thereof.

"Okay, so not the kind of talking you usually do. Bella needs the kind of talking that actually includes personal feelings. Nothing that can be answered with a _yes_ or a _no_."

"Hmm." I smiled just a little, knowing how much I was probably pissing her off.

I heard her mutter something away from the phone. I think it was "Goddammit, you two are too much alike" but I can't be sure.

Into the phone she said, "Look, you love her. Just tell her that. In as many ways as you can…don't assume she knows." Her voice got small at the end, so I thanked her for her help and ended the conversation as quickly as possible. And because I'm a master avoider, I decided not to think about the hurt that hid so unsuccessfully inside Renee's words, concentrated instead on how I would tell Bella how much I loved her.

I show her all the time. Right? I take care of her - welcomed her home after all this time, bought her a truck, even let that rat-bastard back in the house after the Phoenix Debacle. I _even_ refrain from saying his name when I really just want to ask how she could still be hurting over such a punk.

But I suppose I don't really tell her.

It didn't go well. Well, actually, it just didn't go. As I pushed my overfull belly away from the dinner table that night and tossed my paper towel down on the now empty plate, I steeled myself for the job ahead and just spit it out: "Thanks for the dinner, Bells, it was delicious. Sure do love your cooking."

She just got up and cleared the table. Didn't acknowledge the compliment or even notice that I'd used the l-word.

So I tried the next night. Because if Renee said that talking would help, I'd talk, dammit.

She'd decorated the house for Christmas while I was at work that day, and I was a little flabbergasted to walk into a house with Christmas cheer when Bella had seemed so oblivious to the wider world. It was our first Christmas together in sixteen years, but I'd set my expectations pretty low, given the state of things. Should have guessed that Bella the Dutiful wouldn't fail at anything she felt was an obligation, and so she'd obviously fished down the old Christmas lights, holly, and whatever else was up in the attic in a box marked _X-mas_ in Renee's chicken scratch script.

Okay, I'm an ass. I'll admit that for just a second, when I opened the door and saw the lights and holly on the fireplace mantle, I thought my little pep talk at dinner last night had had more effect than it first seemed. But that bubble burst the second I saw her working at the table, insulated from the trappings of joy around her, face just as dull and lifeless as the day before.

But I wasn't giving up. Charlie Swan is not a quitter.

"Wow, Bells," I said, waiting for her to look up from her work so I knew her hearing was still intact, "the house looks great. I'm glad you thought of it. And. Well. I'm really glad we get this Christmas together."

She just nodded and looked back down at her math homework.

And that was just the beginning. At breakfast. At dinner. On weekends, when we both haunted the house and stared numbly at the television. Whenever I was in the same room with her, I just talked. In the beginning, I'll admit I didn't think I had much to say. I had a hard time with Renee's suggestion about asking questions that required a response from Bella. I did it, at first, but I just felt so ridiculous when all I got was silence. So, I changed tracks, manned-up, so to speak, and started telling her about my own life - positive things only, though. How my heart had felt squeezed from the inside when I saw her little face for the first time. How I looked forward to getting a copy of her school picture each year and looking to see how she'd changed or grown just since my visit in the summer. How much her Grandma Swan always bragged about Bella to the other ladies in the nursing home, and how I knew she'd be just as strong and beautiful as my mom was.

I kept waiting for a flicker. Something to show me that she was hearing me, something to prove I wasn't a complete fuck-up as a father.

Most of the time -- no, scratch that -- the_whole_ time, I felt like a complete fool. I'm not great at spilling my guts -- ask Renee --, and with no response, I'll admit that I got a bit desperate. I started making shit up. At first it was just little things, to see if she was listening, but I became scared as hell when it became perfectly obvious that she wasn't. The Seahawks won the Super Bowl. Nothing. It's a miracle: Billy's walking again! Nope. Phil and Renee are having a baby. Zip. The stories got crazier (along with me) as the return to school approached - which I'd apparently fixed in my mind as a deadline of some kind: by the time Bella went back to school after her winter break, I needed some progress. Nothing much - just some indication that things were going to get better, that all this ridiculous talking I'd been doing was helping, that she was somehow better off here with me than in Florida with her mom. How much progress was made with all this jabbering? Zilch. Either Renee's not really the expert on all things Bella, or I just suck as a communicator. I was placing my bets on the latter. Or maybe both.

I walked into the kitchen that morning, saw that she was up as usual and seemed no more nor less comatose than she had back in December or November or October or September. She was staring at her Cheerios, the spoon limp in her right hand.

"Morning, Bells," I said as I walked to the coffeemaker, which Robot Girl had prepared for me, though she didn't drink coffee herself. She nodded minutely in response to my greeting, as per usual, and then went back to the absorbing task of counting her cereal oh's. "So, I wanted to tell you," I paused while I tried to improvise something that might jolt her out of the cocoon she'd hidden in, "I've been screwing Mrs. Stanley, but I'm getting tired of her whiny attitude. What do you think - maybe make a move on Mrs. Newton?"

Okay, seriously? One, I'd never said "screw" before in my life, except maybe as a tame cussword. Two, Mrs. Stanley? Mrs. Newton? Just -- no. Three, I'd rather "screw" either of those women than talk to my daughter about sex. And four -- I don't even have a fourth. The first three are enough! Clearly all rationality had left this vicinity if I was going to say dumb-ass things to get a nonexistent reaction from a girl who was so numb that she didn't even notice that her dad was making statements that should have had him committed.

The talking wasn't working. I wasn't working. Maybe Renee could do better. It was obviously time to let her try.

I slammed my fist down on the kitchen table. That sure woke her up.


End file.
